


Affairs of the Heart

by DarkAkumaHunter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chess, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3924709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAkumaHunter/pseuds/DarkAkumaHunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Trevelyan messes with Dorian's love life. In the end, he isn't even mad about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write in present tense like this, so it feels very awkward to me, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Dorian knows he’s in deep when he catches Evelyn’s wistful gaze on him one too many times. She was his best friend, a hopeless romantic, and was evidently ignoring her own non-existent love life by trying to ride the waves of his own, equally non-existent one. Dorian’s not fool enough to not realise _why_ she’s staring. He’s become alarmingly easy to read, it would seem.

His problem, and the reason for all the staring and sighs he pretends he can’t hear, is one Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford. He’d had to force the commander’s full name from the Inquisitor with promises of decent alcohol and scandalous tales from his past, but it had been worth it. The commander’s name is a secret he holds close to his chest, that he pulls out during long, uncomfortable nights. He thinks of his name, and tries to imagine the Lion of Skyhold as a child, with dirty knees and rosy cheeks.

Dorian knows he’s out of his depth. Being in Ferelden has given him an unexpected sense of freedom, but the darkness of his past is still there, lurking in the background, waiting to strike. This hopeless pining, doe-eyes and chess games and quiet moments in passing, they’re all things he’s never done before. He doesn’t do this. But Cullen is different, and because for once he hadn’t been expecting it, the commander slipped right past his defences and into his wary heart.

He flirts, from time to time, because flirting is in his blood. Flirting, seduction, harmless for the most part and easy to take back, that stuff runs through his veins, keeps him going. As natural as breathing. And Cullen responds beautifully, really, he does. Sometimes he fumbles with whatever he’s holding, sometimes he stumbles over his words, and sometimes he flushes the most becoming shades of red. Sometimes he even flirts back, stilted, awkward, and more lewd than Dorian ever would have expected.

But Dorian isn’t a fool. Well, perhaps a little. He’d have to be a fool, to fall so helplessly for someone he could never have.

Evelyn has voiced her own thoughts on the matter. She’s an optimist through and through, and Dorian appreciates the thought, but he doesn’t believe anything she tells him. He likes to think he’s gotten fairly good at reading men, and Cullen just doesn’t vibe; Dorian’s convinced there’s no way he could ever feel that way about him.

It’s over chess one afternoon that things change.

Dorian arrives first, and takes the opportunity to pick his colour and even take his first move. It used to throw Cullen off balance, but Dorian’s fairly certain he’s used to it by now.

Cullen comes slowly, with the Inquisitor at his shoulder, whispering in low tones. Dorian fancies he sees one of those delightful blushes on Cullen’s pale face, but hasn’t a clue what Evelyn might have said to put it there. She stays with him all the way to their little chess table, before leaving with a wink to Dorian and a hand patting the commander’s elbow.

For the first time Cullen hesitates to sit down. He seems uncomfortable, unsettled. At least, that’s what Dorian thinks he sees. He’s not as good at interpreting Cullen’s actions as he pretends to be. Still, it’s not overly positive.

Dorian stands too, a fluid motion from seated to upright, and moves halfway around the table. He doesn’t reach out to Cullen, because he doesn’t want to chance being brushed away. Instead, he leans his hip against the table and folds his arms, concern on his face.

“If today is not a good day, Commander,” Dorian begins, trying to be gracious and understanding and not sarcastic and biting for once in his life, “we can postpone this game to another time.”

Cullen startles, as though he’s just realised Dorian’s there. Normally Dorian might have been offended, but this is Cullen, and his heart beats a little faster in sympathy. He tries not to let it show.

A strange look spreads across Cullen’s face, one Dorian’s never seen on the commander before. On any other person it might have been contemplative, with perhaps a little bit of… lust? But Dorian brushes it off as wishful thinking.

He does reach out this time, slowly, to ensure Cullen sees what he’s doing. Dorian doesn’t want to startle him any further. Cullen lets him, silent and watching. Dorian takes strength from that, and brushes his fingers against Cullen’s bicep, below his furred armour that he refuses to ever take off.

“Cullen, are you well?”

The commander smiles then, and Dorian is baffled as to what caused it, but the tips of his fingers curl into Cullen’s sleeve almost against his will, and neither of them do anything about it.

“You barely ever use my name,” Cullen comments lightly, that smile still on his lips, that strange look in his eyes. Dorian accepts this with a nod, because it’s true – Cullen’s name rarely leaves his lips, but it rampages around his head at all times of the day and night. He fears if he uses it too often he might slip up, and say something he doesn’t mean to.

“The Inquisitor has been telling me some interesting things,” he continues, and Dorian’s heart skips a beat. She wouldn’t. Dorian wants to believe that Evelyn wouldn’t betray his trust and lay him out to ruin, but in the end, she does what she wants, for good or ill. Dorian’s fingers clench, in fabric and at his side. He doesn’t know what to say.

Fingers brush the side of his face. Dorian hadn’t even noticed he’s averted his gaze until Cullen gently forces his chin up. The look in Cullen’s eyes is a little different now, a warmth behind that other feeling. Dorian wants to melt, being looked at like that. It wrenches his heart. Cullen wouldn’t be this cruel, he tells himself, wouldn’t look at him like this if he was about to tear him down. Believing that is another matter entirely.

“I thought she was teasing me. You know how she is, better than anyone.”

Dorian frowns a little, a wrinkle between his brows, because he can’t tell where this conversation is going anymore. He could guess, if he wanted to take a page out of Evelyn’s book of optimism, but keeping expectations low is how he’s gotten through life thus far, and he’s not going to ruin it now.

Cullen’s thumb rubs across his cheekbone, and Dorian can’t help the little sigh that escapes him. The motion is so tender, and it does nothing for his self-control. All he wants to do is kiss that suddenly smug smile off Cullen’s face, but they’re hanging in a strange equilibrium right now and Dorian doesn’t want to risk misreading anything, or taking the wrong step.

Thankfully, Cullen takes control. The thumb leaves his face and Dorian barely has a chance to bemoan its absence before there’s a hand at the back of his head. Cullen gives him a moment, perhaps to see if Dorian will push him away, but Dorian does nothing of the sort, and Cullen surges forward.

Dorian’s not in control, and it surprises him, but he revels in it, allowing Cullen to dominate. His pulse is a rapid flutter beneath his skin, heart beating frantically. He buries his fingers in the fur of Cullen’s armour.

When they part, Cullen is flushed again, an enticing mix of embarrassed and satisfied, but Dorian knows he looks no better. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, and his hair is no doubt a ruffled mess now, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

Cullen doesn’t say a word, and Dorian is eternally grateful for it. He isn’t sure what he’d do if words were brought into it, if emotions were given voice. It’s too soon, and he’s too fragile, and this, this is pretty close to perfect as it is.

Dorian supposes he owes Evelyn more than a few bottles of wine now.


	2. The Lion's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn Trevelyan meddles in the lives of her close friends, and we find out what she said to Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andraste's tits you guys, I'm supposed to be writing my japanese assignment, but I've gone and done this instead.

Sometimes Cullen wishes the Inquisitor wasn’t such good friends with Dorian Pavus. They’re so close, such good friends, and as such Dorian’s become her mage of choice for whenever she heads out on missions. Every time they leave Cullen’s heart clenches a little, and the weeks they spend away from Skyhold are always full of a low anxiety which he finds he can’t ignore, even in the grips of withdrawal migraines. Those long weeks remind him painfully of everything he keeps to himself, and how every time they leave Skyhold, it might be the last time he ever sees them.

Cullen and Dorian aren’t exactly close. They play chess together from time to time, and Cullen treasures those moments. They’re light-hearted moments, even if Dorian’s relentless flirting – the same flirting he throws about at every handsome man he lays eyes on – tugs at Cullen’s heart-strings and leaves him feeling a little empty. It’s embarrassing, being on the receiving end of Dorian’s particular brand of intensity, but he likes to think he holds his own, when he can.

He supposes it’s a little pathetic, the way he pines in silence. Cullen has never been much for romance or relationships. Watching Mia go through life ahead of him hadn’t been the most inspiring, and after joining the Templars it hadn’t been the time or the place. The middle of a potentially world-ending war, the threat of Corypheus looming overhead every day, probably isn’t any better, but Cullen never asked for this. Never asked to meet the dashing Tevinter Altus, with his golden skin and sharp wit. Never asked to lose himself in that wit, to waste working hours with thoughts lingering on that skin.

Cullen is certain the Inquisitor knows. He’s never said it, and neither has she, but she gives him these looks, whenever she comes by for status updates and instead catches him daydreaming. They’re a little smug, the spiked tattoos around her eyes crinkling as she smiles at him, knowing but not saying. But knowing what? She’s a strange person, he’s known that from the start, not at all the noble he had expected when her name first reached his ears, but she is a dear friend nevertheless.

A dear friend with no sense of personal boundaries.

Cullen is shuffling the papers on his desk, preparing himself for another bittersweet chess game with his heart’s desire, when the Inquisitor waltzes into his office. There’s a wicked grin on her face, a scheming gleam in her eyes, and Cullen doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this but a thrill of trepidation shoots down his spine at the sight of her. She rolls her eyes, as if she can sense the dread, and beckons him closer. Cullen comes with only a slight reluctance, because he will do whatever she asks of him until the Inquisition is no more, and long after that as well.

Evelyn hooks their arms together at the elbow when he reaches her side, and leans a little closer, up on her toes as that scheming look turns conspiratorial.

“I won’t take too much of your time,” she promises, but there are promises hidden under that promise and Cullen still can’t read her and isn’t at all sure what this is about. “I know you’ve got a game to get to.”

Despite himself, Cullen blushes faintly at the acknowledgment. It’s one thing knowing that she knows – and it’s not as though he’s been hiding the chess games, they’re public knowledge – and another to have it whispered in his face, chiding and teasing, with unknown plans whirring away in her mind with every warm breath.

“I’ll walk you to the garden,” she continues, and Cullen doesn’t have it in himself to refuse her, not as she tugs lightly on his arm, already turning towards the door. His feet move automatically, and he allows her to guide him.

“What did you wish to discuss?” Cullen asks, though he isn’t sure he should be prompting her at all. If it’s another game of Wicked Graces she’s proposing, Cullen will have to put his foot down. He’s not sure how much of that sort of embarrassment he can handle.

“I was thinking perhaps Templars and Mages,” she says without preamble, truth and lie all mixed seamlessly into one. Cullen’s heart skips a beat, and if it was anyone but her he would think it political, but Evelyn only talks around the issue to rile people up, and he knows precisely what she means.

“How so?” He prompts, pretending his voice doesn’t tremble. She is a sturdy presence at his side, the keeper of oh-so-many secrets but he doesn’t know if this is right, if he should be prying into whatever it is she knows.

“I know a Templar who is in love with a Mage,” she gives him a pointed look, voice quiet to avoid attracting the attention of the people they walk past, “and I know a Mage who is hopelessly in love with a Templar.”

She says no names and Cullen would love to think she means Dorian but can it be so?

“The two of them are rather stubborn and pathetic and it just tugs at my poor bleeding heart to see them pining so over one another, neither daring enough to take a chance, a leap of faith. So I said to myself, why don’t you just give them a push? Just because I’m alone it doesn’t mean they should deny themselves this chance. What are friends for, if not for facilitating romances?”

Anything else she says is drowned out by a certain buzzing in his ears. His face is aflame, Cullen can feel it, and Dorian’s arrived before him, as he usually does, but there’s something different about this all of a sudden. Evelyn laughs, and disentangles herself from him when they reach the table. She pats his elbow reassuringly, but Cullen barely notices.

His heart’s beating a little too quick; all this new information floating around in his mind, and he doesn’t know quite how to handle it all. Cullen takes everything in: Dorian’s relaxed slouch that never manages to look anything other than regal, the way he’s already made his first move, something Cullen used to call cheating that Dorian called Tevinter ingenuity.

But maybe he stares a little too long, not sure what to do with himself, because suddenly Dorian is there, on his feet, in front of him, with his arms folded and a small frown on his lips and it draws his moustache down just so in a way Cullen finds unduly intriguing…

He speaks, and Cullen forces himself to concentrate.

“If today is not a good day, Commander,” Dorian begins, all his usual teasing and jibes toned down as much as Cullen supposes is possible for the mage to manage, “we can postpone this game to another time.”

Cullen startles at this, gaze jumping immediately to Dorian’s face. His tone is sincere, but reluctant, trying so hard to be respectful. But Cullen doesn’t want Dorian to leave. Maybe they won’t play chess today, if things go well, but under no circumstances does Cullen want to be left alone.

Dorian looks so damned concerned, worried for Cullen’s wellbeing, and Cullen just… snaps. Suddenly this all feels real. There’s a look in Dorian’s eyes that tells Cullen, now that he’s aware, now that he’s looking for it, that the Inquisitor isn’t just winding him up.

Dorian reaches hesitantly out towards him, ring-laden fingers coming to rest against his bicep. Cullen doesn’t say a word, watching silently, letting Dorian do as he pleases. His concern doesn’t appear to have ebbed any, though.

“Cullen, are you well?” There’s a hesitance to Dorian now, even as his fingers curl themselves unbidden in the fabric of Cullen’s sleeve. The way he holds himself has changed, a nervous tension that runs through him, belying his regular effortless confidence.

Cullen can’t help himself. He smiles, bright and wide. The sound his name on Dorian’s lips is something he will never tire of.

“You barely ever use my name,” Cullen comments, partially teasing, mostly satisfied. Dorian nods slowly, a confused tilt to his head.

“The Inquisitor has been telling me some interesting things,” he continues, still smiling, but warier now. Cullen has no doubt that Evelyn had acted out on her own, and she didn’t have Dorian’s permission to tell him anything, but he can’t help but flaunt the knowledge anyway. He _knows_ now. Dorian can’t gloss over it.

Dorian’s fingers clench in his shirt, frustrated, wary, and Cullen regrets speaking so frankly. He’s not good at this. His words betray him in ways Dorian’s never do. He’s always felt that actions speak stronger than words. So that’s what he does.

Cullen reaches out, with the arm Dorian isn’t touching, and brushes his fingers along Dorian’s face, gently tilting his chin up so the mage is looking in his eyes once again.

“I thought she was teasing me. You know how she is, better than anyone.”

A little, confused frown follows Cullen’s words. His smile turns soft, adoring. Even out of his depth, Dorian is a sight to behold. He can’t help himself. Cullen runs his thumb along Dorian’s cheekbone, tender and loving. Dorian lets out a breathy little sigh, and Cullen’s heart swells with it.

Dorian’s gazing up at him with wide eyes, bright with want and indecision, and Cullen knows, instinctually, that he needs to move first, that Dorian will never take that first step.

Cullen’s fingers trail across Dorian’s skin, before cupping the back of Dorian’s neck. He steps closer, crowding Dorian against the table, and leans in.

Kissing Dorian is like drinking liquid sunshine. It warms Cullen from head to toe, and he can’t get enough. He wants this heat forever.

His fingers tangle in Dorian’s hair, and any other time he imagines a put-upon protest, but there are no complaints forthcoming at the moment.

Dorian’s moustache tickles, and when he pulls away for air he’s so ecstatically delirious that he wants to laugh, but he bites it back, terrified of ruining the moment. His cheeks are red, he’s sure of it, his face warmer than he feels comfortable with, but then he takes in the picture Dorian makes, hair ruffled, eyes wide, tanned skin warm with a blush, and he feels inordinately pleased with himself for having put that look there.

He wants to speak, the words bubbling in his throat, begging to be let out, but he knows Dorian, knows him better than he usually likes to admit, and he knows that this isn’t the time for words. Dorian’s skittish at the best of times, and his declarations of affection can wait, wait until a private moment, when Dorian’s had time to adjust. So instead, he rests a hand on Dorian’s hip, and tries to let the pounding of his heart and the ragged edge to his breath speak for him.

He’s going to have to have a talk with the Inquisitor about interfering in other people’s lives, but he can’t bring himself to be upset about her abusing her position as confidante, just this once.


End file.
